


the right path

by norio



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, Manga & Anime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 16:43:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9333809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/norio/pseuds/norio
Summary: "What do you expect from our company?" the interviewer asked.A job. A straightforward path, the only concerns about the budget for printer toners. A solitary lifestyle in a cubicle. But Akaashi curled his fingers around his resume and thought wryly that if he truly wanted all that, he wouldn't be applying to an anime company.





	

**Author's Note:**

> [this](https://twitter.com/orangeohranger/status/808161105919021056) \+ shirobako au

“Akaashi,” Iwaizumi said. “We need the model pack for episode two.” 

Akaashi had already downed two cans of coffee, barely three hours into his shift. His tower of envelopes threatened to collapse onto the floor, his assigned episode lagged a day behind, and his simulation chart had begun to look more like a playful game of Tetris rather than any functional schedule. Even Iwaizumi, who usually favored the whip over the candy, had turned his mouth into a thin, sympathetic line at his own order. He could understand Akaashi’s predicament. As the production manager, Iwaizumi could often be heard in angry, agitated talks with the key animation supervisor, an Oikawa who failed to soothe nerves with his cheerful rebukes against maternal figures. Which left Akaashi with the other eccentric member of the animation department. 

“I’ll take care of it,” Akaashi said. Down the corridor, ducking through the staff kitchen, passing through corridors of key animators flipped through their pages, sharp left at the series of meeting rooms to the artist’s dungeons, where a few background artists tinkered with the artwork on their computers. At the end of the dungeon was the supposed treasure, the art director who stood at his desk, smock splattered in paint. 

“Akaashi,” the art director said, eyes wide at the sight of Akaashi approaching from behind the cubicle walls. 

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi said. “Is the model pack ready for episode two?” 

“Of course it’s ready! Don’t underestimate me, it’s ready, it’s ready.” Bokuto’s hands were stained with blue paint, but he still plunged through the stack of drawings. He unearthed, like a mockery of Indiana Jones, a small packet of drawings. The model pack would act like as reference materials for the moving scenes of episode two. Bokuto nodded to himself, flipping through the pages, and then his mouth twisted like he tasted something sour.

“It’s a little bit ready,” Bokuto continued, “except, maybe not the last part, but you can’t rush genius, you know?”

“If you see a genius around here, please let me know.” Akaashi took the book from Bokuto and flipped through the pages. Half the pages were covered in exterior shots of a gym and vague shots of a small town, and the remaining pages were blank like the snow blanketing Akaashi’s descending mood. 

“Is that an art board,” Akaashi said, looking to the painting on Bokuto’s desk.

“Yeah. Yeah! So I’m working! That means you can’t scold me, Akaashi! I’m doing my work!” Bokuto tossed his head back. 

“Is that an art board for episode seven,” Akaashi said, “when your staff is waiting on the book for episode two.”

“Oh, good eye,” Bokuto said, obviously impressed. 

“I’ll take these,” Akaashi said, taking the finished pages of the model pack. “I’ll come back in one hour for the rest.” 

“One—Akaashi! Nobody can finish that in one hour! There’s the whole getting lost scene, and it’s the countryside, the countryside! You need to smell the grass! Touch the grass! Be the grass!” 

“You have one hour to become grass.”

The key animators must have been used to Bokuto’s sounds because none looked up at his howl. When Akaashi returned to the copy machine, only Yamaguchi had a furrowed brow from Bokuto’s noises. Kenma had earphones over his ears and was bent over his laptop, either playing a text game or simulating work. Goshiki had his head on his arms, either in agony or sleep. It was a rare quiet moment when their landline had stopped ringing and Iwaizumi wasn’t arguing with a director at the doorway. Akaashi leaned on the copy machine and watched as page after page slid atop each other. The black-and-white image showed a calm scene, short ink strokes of grass, a distant row of houses that almost disappeared against groves of trees. He thought he could hear an inked bird chirp, and then he was gathering the copies and grabbing the envelopes and taping down notes and tracking down the in-between checks and going to meetings once again.

**

Akaashi had first met Bokuto in a café. It was a romantic little spot, glass windows and delicate cakes frosted behind a revolving glass display, perfect for wooing prospective art directors. Hinata, the director, had actually chosen the spot, and sat crammed against the window. They had arrived twenty minutes before the meeting time. Hinata picked up the menu, twisted the menu upside down, and twisted the menu right side up again.

“We need him,” Hinata said. “His art has the most—gawoosh! The most wham! With his backgrounds, High Jump will stand out.” Though it was Kageyama who helped acquire High Jump as their next anime, negotiating with the editors at Shueisha, Hinata was the only director present. Akaashi was there as the production side’s replacement for Iwaizumi, who had been handling a month’s delay for their current anime. Akaashi’s sole role was to try and acquire Bokuto’s acceptance of joining their project. 

Bokuto swept into the café five minutes late. He had an insensible face, a grin stretched like a snarl, bright eyes, arched eyebrows. He folded into his seat with an easy confidence, back straight and shoulders broad. 

“Wow.” Bokuto tugged straight on his hair and looked at Akaashi with wide eyes. The windswept hair was a cultivated appearance, Akaashi realized with a shock. 

“Bokuto-san,” Hinata burst out. “Please be the art director of the new anime that we are making it is about volleyball thank you very much!” 

“Wait, Shrimpy!” Bokuto scanned the menu. “Do they have ice cream here?” 

“Yes,” Akaashi said. 

“Wow,” Bokuto said again, eyes almost soft when he glanced at Akaashi. He then proceeded to order two plates of ice cream at Hinata’s acceptance and Akaashi’s decline, which was how Akaashi was paid to sit and watch his director and potential art director wolf down pints of green tea and cherry-chocolate ice cream. 

“Ice cream is the best on hot days,” Bokuto said, halfway through his ice cream mountain.

“Yeah! Yeah!” Hinata enthused.

“It’s winter,” Akaashi said.

“It tastes so good, too! It really melts in your mouth! So cold and sweet!” 

“I think so, too,” Hinata said. “All kinds of flavors!” 

“Right? Right? Vanilla is so good and sweet. It’s classic, I tell you, classic! If you eat a brand’s vanilla ice cream, you can tell the quality of their ice cream. Especially if you eat vanilla ice cream in the summer.” Bokuto spooned another mouthful of ice cream. “We’re doing the summer arc in High Jump, right?” 

“Y-yes!” Hinata straightened his shoulders, holding out his dripping spoon. “VaboAni has taken on the popular sports manga project!”

“I think in high school sports, the summers are bright. Super bright! But not so much saturated, just bright. Hey, who’s your director of photography?” 

“Tsukishima,” Hinata muttered, like it was physically painful to say the words. “Tsukishima Kei.” 

“Oh! Good, Tsukki’s really good with lighting. He’s an unexpectedly bright guy. Is Kuroo working on color? He’s the guy with the floppy hair? He’s got a good sense of color, too, he’s picky.” 

“Yes,” Akaashi said. Bokuto had leaned forward towards Hinata, but when Akaashi spoke, Bokuto seemed almost nervous. He would tug at his hair again and rock back into his seat, like he hadn’t sprawled across the table a moment earlier. 

“Good,” Bokuto said. “And the gym, I’m thinking about the gym. The exterior shot should make it big, but it has to have a warm interior. A really familiar interior! When you watch it, you think, ‘ah, I know what it’s like!’ That kind of feeling.” 

“Excuse me,” Akaashi said, interrupting Hinata’s enthusiastic agreement. “Does that mean you’ll accept the job?” 

“Huh? Yeah.” Bokuto frowned. “Did I forget to say that?”

It wasn’t like Akaashi wasn’t used to the eccentricities of the anime industry. There was Hinata himself, who jumped higher than the conference table when he talked about his projects. Kageyama, who could start a fire with his angry intensity. Oikawa, whose speeches about animation always seemed to end with a flirty crowd at bars. Kuroo, who once watched a sunset, drinking out of a kawaii cat mug, and remarked that he would have added more blues. Ushijima, who never met a metaphor he liked, plowing through with a straightforward honesty that managed to leave the most troublesome duo in their office, Oikawa and Iwaizumi, shaking in anger in his wake. 

Really, all things considered, Akaashi should have been better prepared for the storm of Bokuto Koutarou.

**

The beeping of the production office never stopped, though the casual chatter had idled since their morning assembly. Kenma had taken their company car to gather finished cuts from their freelancers. Goshiki muttered to himself at the corner desk, eyes lit with fire at some apparent success. Yamaguchi, though, leaned across the divider of Akaashi’s desk.

“Akaashi-san,” he said, hesitant. 

“Yes?” Akaashi technically was the head production assistant, but Yamaguchi’s requests usually stemmed from Yamaguchi’s gentleness towards Tsukishima. While Tsukishima hunched over his computer, he would at least listen to Yamaguchi, which was better than his strange, hostile relationship with Goshiki. But Yamaguchi would simply nod and smile and say ‘That’s okay, Tsukki, take your time,’ in contrast to how Akaashi would stand over Bokuto’s cubicle and watch him sweat over the model pack. 

That being said, none of the episodes had made their way to the end of the production line for their director of photography. Tsukishima was still holed up in his cubicle, headphones over his ears, and Yamaguchi’s current role was to shepherd Hinata’s finished storyboards to the right people.

“Um,” Yamaguchi said, but Iwaizumi caught the door frame and poked his head into the room.

“Akaashi, you dealing with a disaster?”

“Not yet.”

“Great. Meeting Room A.” Iwaizumi continued down the hallway. Yamaguchi had returned to his desk, typing with a focus too sharp to be real. 

“We’ll talk later,” Akaashi said. Yamaguchi offered a weak smile, but he seemed to feel better. His pose uncurled and he flipped through his schedule book. 

Akaashi entered the meeting room and asked, “Did something happen?” while he shut the door behind him. The meeting was apparently informal. Iwaizumi half-sat on the table, checking through his phone with his normal, intense scowl. 

“Something’s always happening,” Iwaizumi said. “I’ll be taking some vacation time after the second cour of High Jump hits the air. VaboAni will probably be working on another project by then, maybe the sequel. Do you want to be acting manager?” 

“I could,” Akaashi hedged. Iwaizumi flicked through his screen. 

“The staff will mostly be the same. Oikawa will be coming with me, but that’s better for you. Being Desk might be challenging, but I’ve seen your work. You’ll be fine.” Iwaizumi finally stopped on his phone, pressing the flat screen against his arm. “You’ll be able to make a lot of new connections, too.”

“It’s a difficult position, but I would be honored to accept the challenge.”

“Right, but I’m not trying to warn you. Just a friendly heads-up. it’s a good way to get to where you want to go. If you want to be a manager in the future, or, I don’t know. Director, I guess. Producer, or maybe even CEO or president of your own company.” Iwaizumi shrugged, his shoulders effortlessly rising. “You’re good with the troublemakers. And if you can handle the yahoos in here, then you can handle the jabronis out there.”

“President,” Akaashi repeated. He smiled faintly in amusement, but Iwaizumi had sternly returned to his phone, apparently unaware of his own joke.

“It’s not a straightforward path,” Iwaizumi said, “but I used to be a gardener, so who am I to say that. Sorry, I’m late to three meetings, so I’ll take my leave now. Keep up the good work.” 

Iwaizumi left first, phone wedged between shoulder and ear while texting on either a burner phone or Oikawa’s phone. President Akaashi of So-and-So Company. Akaashi bit back a laugh and returned to his seat in the bullpen. Yamaguchi had disappeared, likely taking the other car to collect cuts. Kenma had returned. Bokuto, too, had become another unwelcome member of the group, standing beside Akaashi’s desk with a printed-out schedule memo from his email.

“I can’t check all these cuts in one day,” Bokuto told him, flapping the paper in his face. “Genius takes time! It takes time! Akaashi, this is the production schedule from—from a bad place! I refuse to do it! I’m going to just go home!” Empty words from someone who apparently had waited by Akaashi’s desk for at least a few minutes, after taking the time to print out his email and draw a frowny Akaashi face near the heading. 

Akaashi opened his Bokuto drawer, pulled out a chocolate bar, and tossed it in Bokuto’s direction. Bokuto snapped it into his mouth, eyes lighting up. He unwrapped it, murmured something about getting a drink from the kitchen, and wandered away. Kenma peered over the divider at the drawer full of candy and spare paint brushes, likely wondering if he could distract Kuroo in the same way.

President Akaashi of So-and-So Company. Akaashi didn’t have time to linger, though, because the next call was apparently from their off-site rented server that had apparently caught on fire.

**

The rumors greatly exaggerated the extent of the fire. By the end of the shift, people were discussing the flames engulfing the entirety of the rental business’s building and the heroic and handsome firemen who must have burst through the doors. Really, the case had been poor ventilation combined with overheating that resulted in a small flame. Their own data had been safe, but Iwaizumi had been pulled for a few more meetings about the safety of transferring their data with that company, and Akaashi was left on duty even after the rest of the production assistants gleefully escaped to their homes.

When he finished his last email, he turned off the lights and did a quick sweep of the corridors. He unplugged the coffee machine from the kitchen and was about to leave for the night when he saw a dim light at the end of the background artists’ hallway. The office was dark at night, but honestly, if there was a ghost haunting the company, then Akaashi was more pissed that the ghost didn’t actually pull his ethereal weight and start working on the in-betweens. 

The light, however, did not emit from a ghost. Bokuto was still painting an art board. A scene from the anime’s early training montage, it seemed. He had pictures of foggy mountains pinned onto his board and he dabbed at a rolling mist. The trees protruded like the shadows of giants. He must have taken his jacket off in the afternoon and had forgotten to put it back on during the colder night, because his white jacket had fallen off the back of his chair and onto the floor. He had dark compression sleeves that somehow weren’t covered in paint despite the vigor of his brush strokes. After a while, Bokuto reached for a speckled cup with gray tinged water and began to raise it to his mouth.

“Please wait,” Akaashi said. Bokuto blinked in surprise. 

“Akaashi,” he said. “You’re still here? Did I miss a deadline?” 

“The last person out from production usually checks the area.” Akaashi took the rinsing cup and gently settled it back onto its proper home. He bent down to pick up Bokuto’s jacket. Bokuto’s fingers had been stained with gray, and they curled over his smock. 

“Akaashi!” Bokuto said. “Will you—have dinner with me?” Akaashi folded the jacket over in his arm and checked his watch. 

“Sure,” he said. He wasn’t like the director or the editors who stayed behind frequently. Akaashi usually went home and cooked dinner, but the server fiasco had left him tired, wrung-out, and far past his usual clocking out time. Iwaizumi’s little speech to him earlier felt centuries away and it just seemed nice to not have instant food as a compromise.

“Really? Right now?” Bokuto staggered back in his seat, blinking with wide eyes. 

“Why are you surprised?” Akaashi asked, mystified. “You were the one who asked me.” 

“I’ll clean up!” Bokuto sprang from his chair with far too much energy for the time of night. He grabbed the folded jacket and rushed towards the bathroom. Akaashi flicked off the last light in the artist’s room and wandered back to the company lobby. Bokuto reappeared a few minutes later, his hands cleaned, hair straightened, and shirt changed to a neater, dark blue t-shirt. 

The closest restaurant to Vabo Animations was Fuunji Ramen, a late-night restaurant that still had their seats vaguely occupied despite the late hour. The owners were used to stragglers from their company, and they likely wouldn’t have even blinked at Bokuto’s former paint-splattered state. Bokuto chose a booth seat and ordered a meat heavy ramen. Akaashi had his usual order, accompanied by an additional can of Kirin. When the waiter finished taking their order, Bokuto leaned across the table and said, “You have a really refined taste, Akaashi,” like ordering the largest bowl of ramen and a beer was the pinnacle of royalty.

“You come here often?” Bokuto asked over his chashu pork.

“It’s a popular VaboAni haunt.” Akaashi blew on his ramen. The steam wafted across the table. He usually came with the pack of production assistants and perhaps a group from the animation department. If Kuroo, for example, dragged Kenma to eat with the rest of the production department, then his pack of the coloring committee would slink into the room, too. Sometimes Yaku and Kuroo would get into a heated argument and only Kai would notice Kenma sneaking into the night. But Akaashi rarely ate alone with anybody from animation. He was sure Bokuto felt beleaguered. The background artists’ usual topic of slandering might be production, and it was hard to complain about deadlines and pushing for certain episodes at erratic timing when said pusher was trying to drink beer and eat his ramen in front of them. 

Still, for all of Bokuto’s wailing, Akaashi found it hard to imagine Bokuto complaining about him. Bokuto smiled and folded his elbows forwards, still abound with energy despite the late night hour.

“So what anime got you into this?” Bokuto asked, grinning like he knew a wicked secret. 

“There was an opening at VaboAni after I graduated from university, so I applied.” Akaashi bit into his egg. “I suppose there was one anime that inspired me, but it’s fairly obscure.”

He had applied out of convenience, but he had kept the anime in the back of his mind. In university, after his classes, sometimes he would go home and watch Bird! Bird!!, an anime about birds playing sports. The show itself was ridiculous. The premise was ludicrous. But he found himself curled on his bed, watching the episodes over and over again. The music would swell, the characters would leap, and the sights on the screen would entrance him. If he had to admit it, that anime would be his favorite, but he hadn’t gone into the business with wide idealistic eyes. But, perhaps, when he had sat down for the group interview, he had thought making something like that wouldn’t be bad. 

“I usually hear, you know. I watched Doraemon when I was a kid, and I was really inspired! That kind of thing. Oh, Ghibli, you can’t forget Studio Ghibli.” Bokuto nodded. “It makes sense! People who like anime will get into anime, or something like that. What was I talking about again? I forgot.”

“Is that why you got into the business?” Akaashi soaked his vegetables aboard a raft of ramen. “You were inspired by an anime?”

“Well, maybe. The reason why you get into something isn’t always the reason you keep doing it.” Bokuto grinned. “For me, I want people to like me!”

“That’s an admirable goal,” Akaashi said blandly, which was his answer for anything that might not be an admirable goal. Bokuto swelled with pride, encouraged by Akaashi’s lackluster approval.

“I want people to say good things about me. I want people to compliment me! After an anime airs, you know, I want people to say, that art director did a really good job! I like his work! I like his work a whole darn lot!” Bokuto leaned back, tapping his fingers on the table like an impatient child. “Well, that’s a little bit of an answer, anyway. I just said that so I could impress you.” 

“Is there a real answer?” Not that Akaashi was invested in Bokuto’s reasoning, either, but even he could enjoy a twisting and dashing roller coaster ride. 

“Yeah, probably.” Bokuto rolled his chopsticks into the ramen. “You feel like ordering another bowl?” 

Akaashi did. 

Bokuto wanted to pay for the meal, though Akaashi said splitting was fine. Bokuto appeared on the verge of sulking when they reemerged into the night. 

“Thank you for the company,” Akaashi said politely. “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.” He had walked his bicycle to the restaurant, but he began boarding it a few paces away. 

“Yeah! Let’s work hard tomorrow, Akaashi!” Bokuto beamed. “Let’s get ten billion viewers for High Jump!”

“That’s unlikely, Bokuto-san.”

The night was a biting cold on his face. He pedaled up a hill and allowed his momentum to carry him down the slope, feet steady on the pedals as the scenery breezed beside him.

**

“And lastly, I’ve heard Ushijima’s been looking to talk to Oikawa. Don’t leave them alone in the same room, or leave him alone in the same room with me. That’s all for the morning assembly.” Iwaizumi placed down his clipboard. “Oh, yeah. Akaashi, we need art boards for episode three.”

“I understand.” Akaashi had never had to hurry an art director, but he stuffed a few emergency chocolate bars into his pockets and began to assemble the envelopes on his desk. Yamaguchi, who was the production assistant in charge of aforementioned episode three, seemed downcast. 

“I will speak with Bokuto-san,” Akaashi told him, and then remembered the distant yesterday. “Would you like to talk now about yesterday’s matter?” 

“What? Oh, no. Maybe later, it’s not really important.” Yamaguchi tried to smile, but he still had a worried, pensive dart to his eyes. “Good luck with Bokuto-san.” 

The artists had scurried, trapped expressions, which only promised trouble. Some had only been brought in with Bokuto, but Akaashi’s job was to remember their names. Komi, the one pretending to tinker with the saturation. Konoha, the one pretending to be filling out lines. Washio, the tall one hunched over the model pack, flipping through the pages and thoroughly pretending to be examining the art. They had all averted their eyes away from Bokuto, who had spun his chair around to his computer desk. The drying canvas board of paints had been left unfurled on his west wall. The episode three art boards had been pulled up onto his screen, but he appeared to have been a part of the desk for years. 

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi said. 

“Akaashi,” Bokuto moaned into his desk. “Nobody likes me, Akaashi!” 

“Well,” Akaashi said.

“And, and, this isn’t coming right! It’s a little off! But why is it off? The more I change it, the worse it gets! Maybe it was better the very first time! Maybe I should paint this all over again! I can’t tell! I’ve forgotten how to paint! Nobody likes me and I don’t know how to hold a paintbrush and everything is horrible and everybody’s waiting and I didn’t eat breakfast!” Bokuto buried his face into his arms, and muffled out, “I forgot to buy food and now I just have a rotten apple in my refrigerator but I might as well eat that because you are what you eat!” 

“Well,” Akaashi said. “That’s not true.” 

“I mean how do you do it! How do you hold a paintbrush, Akaashi!” Bokuto grabbed one from another paint-splattered mug. He tried to grip it, and it fell out of his hand. He spiraled back to his spot on his desk, unmovable and isolated. 

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi said. “Many people admire your work.” 

“Yeah?” Bokuto peered up, eyes still shining with apparent teary-eyed wonder. Akaashi tapped his finger on the envelope. 

“Yes,” he said slowly. “Like—Komi-san.”

“What?” Komi snapped his head towards the conversation he had clearly been eavesdropping upon, and seemed a little astounded at the attention. “Oh. Yeah. I think—you’re—great—Bokuto—” Komi would never win an award for acting, but he wasn’t a voice actor for a reason. Bokuto seemed to cheer up. 

“And Konoha-san,” Akaashi said. 

“Right,” Konoha said, reluctantly. “Well, you know I own your book, Bokuto. It’s somewhere.”

“Sarukui-san.”

“Out of all the people here,” Sarukui said, “you’re the person I’d mostly likely call the art director.”

“Right, right.” Bokuto was nodding slowly, warming up to their compliments. “Right. You’re absolutely right. I’m the best, aren’t I?” 

Akaashi hummed something like agreement while he slipped the chocolate bars to background artists. They devoured them at speed while Bokuto was slowly puffing back up again, inflating with good will. He had a wide grin on his face, arms crossed over his chest. 

“I’m the best!” he yelled, and twisted back to his computer screen. His fingers flicked over the mouse and keyboard, returning to clicking at breakneck speed. Akaashi collected the empty wrappers from Komi and Sarukui. Konoha was taking some more time with his, and Akaashi glanced at the few books leaning on the wall. Most were books about gymnasiums and volleyball, but he caught sight of a title with lettering that read something like Bokuto. Konoha returned the wrapper and Akaashi returned to the bullpen. 

Meeting Room B’s door had been closed, but the black uniform of the director was obvious. Hinata was there with Takeda, the executive producer from the television station, and Ukai, the line producer. Their meetings grew more frequent as the air dates neared. Akaashi supposed there was pressure to prove VaboAni could become a powerhouse once again, but for him, the pressure remained stifling and the same. 

“Kenma,” he said in passing. “I’m going to the kitchen. Would you like any tea?” 

“No thanks,” Kenma murmured. 

Akaashi couldn’t be sure if Kenma liked or disliked him, not that it concerned him particularly. Other than the morning assemblies, the production assistants often went spiraling and chasing after their episode cuts. For his own episode, Akaashi had to check on a freelancer on thirty cuts with a heavy scene, but he had managed to struggle his way back on schedule. After some years, he had managed to get on speaking terms with Kenma, which was more than Goshiki could say. It was just their personalities, he supposed. Goshiki was constantly burning with fire, and Kenma was constantly trying to fold himself into his desk.

Akaashi opened the staff refrigerator, where he had placed his convenience store lunch. He ripped the post-it with his name off the cover and popped it into the microwave. While the container was still heated, he brought it over to artists’ dungeon again. 

“Bokuto-san,” he said. 

Bokuto didn’t wear headphones like Tsukishima, but he had more work at this stage than Tsukishima. A few pictures of gymnasiums were appearing and reappearing at astounding speed. 

“Bokuto-san,” he said, louder. This time, Bokuto turned around, eyes wide. When he saw the food, he nearly dropped his stylus. 

“If you don’t have breakfast, your mood will drop,” Akaashi continued. He placed the food at a good distance from the computer. Bokuto’s cubicle was half office, leaving him room to paint at the other end of the wall. A few paintings had been laid out to dry and they still seemed sleek and wet. 

“Thanks, Akaashi,” Bokuto said, already picking up the chopsticks. 

“This much is normal.” Akaashi glanced at the computer screen. “Are you finished?” 

“Working on the last one,” Bokuto said, “for now.” He still chewed while he clicked at the screen. 

“It looks fine to me.” Akaashi bent down to avoid the screen glare. “Though I’m an amateur at art.”

“No, no! Our audience isn’t going to be experts. They’ll be people like you and me. It’s just—” Bokuto took another bite of the chicken. “It’s going to be a moving scene at night, so I have to get the light from the gym just right. It has to be soft and familiar. Right now, it’s too sleek and cool. But it’s got to have a good, comforting look to it. Do you like chicken?” 

“What?”

“This kind of chicken. Do you like it?” Bokuto waved his chopsticks over the box. 

“I suppose.” Akaashi had chosen the package at the convenience store more for its half-off price, but he wouldn’t say he disliked chicken. He obviously would have accepted this at lunch, though now he supposed he’d have to find an alternative. Bokuto picked up a chicken piece and held it out. He had turned his attention back towards the computer, and Akaashi reluctantly accepted the chicken into his mouth and weakening dignity. 

“I like this.”

“The chicken?”

“The gym.” Bokuto munched into his lunch. “What does it make you feel, Akaashi?”

“Like I have a deadline.”

“Maybe warmer tones on the window,” Bokuto said cheerfully. 

By the time Akaashi returned to the bullpen, Iwaizumi tossed him the phone, on receiver duty to hear back from Studio Johzenji’s eternal elevator music. They had contracted Johzenji to do an episode, but they seemed to operate only in France’s time zone, though they were located in Miyagi. Akaashi updated his simulation chart and listened to the music tinkling into his ear. When he allowed his gaze to drift onto the stacks of envelopes behind him, he thought of the gymnasium again. Something warm, even at night. Something familiar, even in the darkness. Safety, he thought, and the song started again.

**

Akaashi bought two convenience store lunches and a hair dryer. He arrived earlier than the morning assembly and bumped into Yamaguchi, who was washing a cup out in the sink.

“Akaashi-san,” Yamaguchi said, hands covered in soap. “Do you have some time?” 

“Yes,” he said, labeling both boxes with his name. 

“It’s just—” Yamaguchi bit his lip. “I’m not sure if this is what I want to do.” And Akaashi had a feeling that Yamaguchi wasn’t talking about washing his mug in the sink with a noticeably smelly sponge.

Yamaguchi had attended the same high school as Hinata, Kageyama, and Tsukishima. They had been in the animation club, but he had noticed, considerably, that Hinata had already become a director, Kageyama an animation producer, and Tsukishima the director of photography. Him, on the other hand, had been left behind in production—not that he was saying that he didn’t think production was valuable, of course it was, but he was still a production runner and not even the manager, like Iwaizumi, and he had been wondering if it was more right to give up the job and find something else he could do, perhaps even better. He couldn’t draw or voice act, but he might still find an office job that had less demanding hours and stress, and the more he continued as a production assistant, then wasn’t he reducing his chances of getting another job, somewhere else?

Akaashi could have said that the pay could be worse, and that at least they made it home on time during the early days of airing. But he had seen Hinata and Kageyama snoring at their desks, and the image of Bokuto alone, still painting a wide portrait, sleeves dark and entranced to the paint, was still emblazoned in his mind. 

“I just can’t do as I want to do,” Yamaguchi said in a bewildered frustration. “And I—I feel like I’m running out of time to choose. If I want to do something else, shouldn’t I choose it quickly? I don’t know. I really—don’t know.” 

“I think our film editor quit once, too.” Akaashi didn’t think that was a good answer, but he also wasn’t sure if he could give a good answer to Yamaguchi. 

“Ennoshita-san?” Yamaguchi gaped at him. “Why?” 

“Well—” Something clattered a few cubicles over. Akaashi stood up and Yamaguchi followed. Loud shouts, noises, something else being thrown or knocked over, landing somehow loudly on their carpeted floor. When Akaashi rushed into the key animation corridor, he found Oikawa and Ushijima standing face-to-face, alone, at the end. 

“I’ll get Iwaizumi,” Yamaguchi said, disappearing in a whisper, which left Akaashi with trying to keep either of them from burning the building down and truly summoning the heroic and handsome firemen. 

“Re-a-a-lly,” Oikawa was saying. He had taken off his glasses, apparently just coming in for the morning. He was clicking at his usual stopwatch with a furious pace, the numbers starting and spluttering. Akaashi was used to mismatched pairs, so to speak. The bouncy director Hinata and the frowning Kageyama, or even the light-hearted Oikawa and the stern Iwaizumi. This time, however, he was faced with Oikawa, who was smiling through intense anger, and Ushijima, who stood like a broad mountain in front of him, equally unmoved by the anger if he recognized it at all.

“As their supervisor, you should understand your animators’ work.” Ushijima had the envelopes tucked under his arm, note taped on top. Apparently he had been on his way to deliver the re-takes to production. Akaashi tried to step closer, but Oikawa was already narrowing the gap.

“Their work is fine,” Oikawa said through clenched teeth. “I have personally checked their work again and again. The opening has smooth key frames, the rotoscoping is smooth, we’ve gone over the motions until they’re fluid and—”

“Inconsistent.” Ushijima read from his note on the envelope. “The style is too varied. You are an excellent key animator, Oikawa. I wouldn’t expect you to accept such sloppy styles.” 

“Rea-a-a-a-lly,” Oikawa said. 

“Excuse me,” Akaashi said softly, but apparently too softly for Oikawa to hear. 

“Then can you point to any one part and say it’s bad? Which part should we fix? Can you tell us that?” Oikawa opened and closed his fists.

“There are no errors,” Ushijima said. “But it is inconsistent, which lowers the quality of the opening.”

“It’s a lot better than your one-track mind—”

“Oikawa.” Iwaizumi had arrived on scene, Yamaguchi tagging behind him. “We’ll talk about it later. Ushijima, I understand, but we can’t keep delaying the opening animation release. Let’s schedule a meeting with the director.” Akaashi half-expected Ushijima to put up a scene, but he merely nodded in acceptance. He was the first to turn and leave, and Oikawa was left almost trembling in anger. Yamaguchi hastily escaped into the other direction. Akaashi also began to take his leave, but Iwaizumi broke his exasperated silence.

“Wait, Akaashi. I’ll need you to do some things for me.” 

“Yes, yes,” Oikawa said, with a levity that didn’t reach his strained smile. “And I’ll take a look at these—re-takes—again—” He slammed the envelope and his stopwatch onto his desk, rattling his hand mirror. He jammed his glasses back on his face with one hand and sat down at his desk. 

“Hey,” Iwaizumi said, but Oikawa almost snarled in return.

“Geniuses!” Oikawa slammed his fists on the table, fluttering the taped note on the envelope. “Geniuses piss me off!” Akaashi ran his fingers over his knuckles, brow furrowing. Oikawa was well-known to be the top genius from the key animators. His idea and style of motion always had the fluidity necessary for the anime. He could match any director’s ideal concept, as well as any other animator’s style, all with effortless strokes of his pencil. Oikawa’s keen supervisor senses allowed him to pinpoint out the details for every single one of his animators. This was Yahaba’s first time as character designer, but Oikawa had pinpointed his abilities well. To him, Oikawa Tooru was a man of extraordinary talent.

“Calm down,” Iwaizumi said. 

“But you know what pisses me off the most!” Oikawa flipped through the pages with agile, angry fingers. “He’s probably right! Him and his instincts, they’re probably right, and it pisses me off! I hope his coffee is ice cold today!”

“He deserves ice cubes of coffee,” Iwaizumi said. “But what do you think you’ll accomplish like this? Come on, take a walk. Akaashi, sorry, but I’ll be out for a while. Take over the landline and email me the director’s schedule for today.” 

“I’m going to work,” Oikawa said stubbornly, but he was dragged by the collar by Iwaizumi’s strong fist.

“You’re going to overwork yourself,” Iwaizumi said. “And, Akaashi, I’ll be missing this morning assembly. Take over if you can.”

“All right,” Akaashi said. The thin corridors allowed him to hear their murmurings even as Iwaizumi forcibly dragged Oikawa towards the doorway. The morning crowd hadn’t entered yet, and Oikawa had apparently adopted the limp body offense, which left them taking a slow and unsteady trail. 

“Didn’t you tell say something like this,” Iwaizumi was saying. “Talent is something—you polish, and instinct, you make bloom. If you think you don’t have it, you won’t. Could be today, tomorrow, years.”

“You’re mixing it all up, Iwa-chan!” 

Akaashi did lead the morning assembly. He scheduled a meeting between Hinata, Ushijima, and Oikawa. And Kageyama, for some reason, had caught wind of the meeting and invited himself. Hinata had only muttered something about needing to go to the bathroom and stumbled away when Akaashi delivered the meeting time. As for Yamaguchi, he left a note about Ennoshita’s next meeting in the building, and Yamaguchi seemed appreciative to have another lead. Genius, talent, hard work. The right path, the wrong path, choosing quickly. 

At the afternoon break, even though Iwaizumi hadn’t returned, Akaashi warmed his food in the microwave. He took both boxes to the artists’ dungeon, where they apparently had enough time to make a shoddy height chart on a cubicle. Bokuto’s height was marked high over Washio, and Akaashi suspected some tantrums and jumping had been involved in that fiasco. The other artists had left for lunch, but Bokuto was still there, having returned to his painting. He was raising the rinsing cup again to his mouth, water tinged red.

“Please wait,” Akaashi said, swapping the cup with a can. He had chosen a sweet tea. Coffee was out because Akaashi had no desire to interact with an even more energetic Bokuto, but with all the talk about ice cream, Bokuto likely had a sweet tooth. 

“Are you going to dry your hair, Akaashi?” Bokuto leaned back in his seat. 

“No, your artwork hasn’t been drying. It’s likely because there’s little natural sunlight here.” Akaashi plugged in the hair dryer and began to blow on the paintings. Bokuto ate his lunch with his knees curled up on the chair, as if protecting his food from the hot air. Akaashi flattened out the glistening wetness of the mountains, but took a break for his own lunch. 

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi said, chewing on his onigiri. “There are talented people in the art industry, aren’t there. Geniuses, so to speak.” 

“Yeah, like me.” 

“And I think there is no director that hasn’t also worked hard to achieve their position.” 

“Yeah, I work hard!” 

“It must be difficult to work with people who you perceive as more talented,” Akaashi said. “Especially when they, too, have put time and effort into their work.” 

“Oh, right! That’s annoying!” Bokuto shoved the rice into his mouth. “Or when you see something and you think, I should have thought of that! Or, why are you better! That sort of thing, right? Or when you want to get complimented more, because you worked so hard, that feeling.” 

“Yes,” Akaashi said. “Those feelings. Do you have those, Bokuto-san?” 

“Of course I do!” Bokuto said it like a triumph. Akaashi simply nodded and finished his meal. Bokuto looked at him questioningly. “Hey hey hey, Akaashi. You know, I went to art school. And my teacher said my lines were really, really bad. Perspective, straight lines, you say it, I was horrible at it. Everybody else was younger and so much better! So I practiced the hell out of them, Akaashi. And now that’s my job, doing good lines so everybody else knows what to draw. And it feels good to draw them. Really good. I know my work is good work. There are those types of feelings, too.”

“You don’t need to reassure me.” 

“But you looked worried, Akaashi! Unless maybe that’s your normal face.” Bokuto squinted at him, shrugged, and returned to his paints. His smock had a few additional stains of a sunset variety. “Well, I say all that, but I don’t think about it all that much.” 

“No?” Akaashi rested his chin on his fist. His lunch had been long over, but he remained sitting and watching Bokuto swipe another brush stroke onto his painting. 

“It’s fun to just work on something with all your heart, too. I think someone called that simple-minded, but I call that full-hearted.” Bokuto dipped his brush into his rinsing mug. “Hey, were you calling me a genius? You were, right? I’m a genius, right?”

“I’ll buy you a soda.” 

“Soda! Yeah, soda!”

**

“But I can understand Oikawa-san,” Goshiki said. Which was surprising, since he was Ushijima’s underclassman from university. He had been typing an email to a contractor, but sat back now, hands outstretched behind him in the finger exercises Akaashi had shown them. Kenma was also in the office, but he had hunched over so much, only the top of his hair and dark roots appeared over the divider walls.

“Ushijima-san is just so good. When I see him, I want to be better than him! But I also want to watch him!” Goshiki harrumphed and returned to his computer. “But the opening is going to be good, trust in that!”

Akaashi could believe it. The emergency meeting had been held in Meeting Room A, and between the open slats of the blinds, he could see Hinata shivering between Oikawa and Ushijima. 

“Akaashi,” Iwaizumi said, ducking his head into the office. “Our art director’s missing. Find him.” 

“Missing?” Akaashi echoed, sliding his seat away from his desk. 

“He’s gone with the wind.” 

Staff kitchen, meeting rooms, key animators, and back down into the artists’ dungeon. Iwaizumi was correct. Bokuto’s seat had emptied out, and he had only left behind a half-blank canvas. His computer had been booted up at some point, but had gone back to sleep. He hadn’t left any notes behind, other than a reminder to himself to buy more grays for his paint. Slowly, Akaashi turned to the troublemakers behind him. 

“Yesterday, he was saying the art board wasn’t going well,” Konoha said, head ducked down. 

“I think he borrowed a camera from the department, too,” Komi offered. 

A few scrapped canvases showed Bokuto’s frustrated attempts at a sunset scene. They had modeled the gymnasium from a school in Tokyo, and the pictures had been pinned on the corkboard. Akaashi stalked down to find the requisition forms. Bokuto, in the morning, had indeed borrowed a camera. When he checked the front, Bokuto’s bicycle was missing. He didn’t always bike to work, though, and Akaashi stood in front of the bike racks. He ran his fingers over each other, tugging at the thickest part of his joints, and then he slipped back to the bullpen. 

“I’m borrowing the second company car,” he said.

“Okay,” Yamaguchi said, surprised. “For what?”

“A hunt,” Akaashi said through gritted teeth. He printed out a map of the area, sketched a few roads with a bright red pen, and started the car. 

The company car trundled down the roads. Akaashi kept his head low to scan the sidewalk for the tell-tale brush of hair. Though only fifteen minutes had passed since he first started, he had looped and returned through various roads enough times to get his fingers tapping on the steering wheel. He turned on the radio, and turned it off again. The map had begun resembling a wadded napkin more than a cartographer’s work. When he finally passed a man with a satchel riding across a bridge, he had nearly become numb to visual stimulations. The realization hit him with a crack and he swung the car around, blocking Bokuto from finishing his road crossing. 

“Oh, Akaashi!” Bokuto said cheerfully. “What a coincidence!” 

“Get in the car.” 

“It’s okay, I can bike there—”

“Get. In the car.” 

The second company car had a bike rack on the top. Bokuto sat in the passenger seat. Akaashi had pulled over and rested his head on the steering wheel. 

“Please tell someone if you’re leaving the premises, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi said. 

“Were you worried? You were worried! Akaashi was worried about me!” 

“Bokuto-san.” 

“I just needed some pictures,” Bokuto said. “I know we got the pictures of the school, but it wasn’t the right angle or the right weather. I just figured I’d go and get them like a genius.”

“It would take an hour’s bike ride.”

“I have confidence in my legs!” 

“Put on your seatbelt.” Akaashi shifted the gear into drive. “And please hold tightly onto your things.”

“Sure, but why-y-y-y—”

When Akaashi first became a production assistant, he had to deal with many new things. The pressure from the executives, the anger from the key animators, the deadline that always breathed down his neck. He wouldn’t have called himself a meek driver, but he would say that he had been a safe driver. But there were always deadlines and freelancers and cuts and he needed episode directors to sign off and frankly, it was just easier if he could drive faster. So now, he casually peeled down the road. Bokuto pressed himself into his seat, arms wrapped around his satchel, which was the safest option. When Bokuto first appeared to relax, Akaashi began to attack the hill climb. 

It was safe, more or less. Initially he had been too new to buckle the cuts into his passenger seat, so he had to swing the car to maintain the equilibrium. Not that Bokuto seemed to know that, hand pressed against the window and shouting, “You’re going to crash, brake, Akaashi, brake,” but braking too early or too late would be disastrous for drifting. He had to drift with a 4WD, too, and he attacked the five narrow hairpin turns. He kept the back-end from swinging out and considered turning on the radio again, if only to cover some of Bokuto’s shouts, but the radio likely wouldn’t have a good signal in the mountainous area. He still grabbed a chocolate bar from beneath the radio, though, and tossed it to Bokuto, which might have reassured Bokuto if Akaashi hadn’t lifted his hand up while he was drifting. But he still had one hand on the steering wheel, so it was all perfectly safe.

Somewhere in the third hairpin turn, Bokuto’s fear had transformed into excitement, and he was shouting, “Faster, faster,” like a child. He had an uproarious laugh. Akaashi thought he liked the sound of it resonating through his ears. He had been maintaining a good speed from the start, but he attacked the downhill slope, too, and Bokuto yelled and laughed and ate his chocolate bar. 

“Wow,” Bokuto said, when they finally reached a parking spot. 

“Don’t leave any crumbs in the car.” 

Bokuto directed them to a hill overlooking the school gymnasium. The sun was still up, but Akaashi took a few pictures while Bokuto settled into the grass. He had a travel-sized kit of paints and a canvas, which he didn’t have the first time they had gone locating hunting. Akaashi had tagged along because he had the most experience with the camera. While the other directors had moved in a vague herd, Bokuto was always lingering and looking at something new, eyes almost hungry. Akaashi had taken a few pictures from where Bokuto was staring and had gotten praised for his efforts.

“What do you think about the background art, Akaashi?”

“I think we’ll need to pick up the pace to complete significant ground for the second cour.”

“You don’t feel anything?” Bokuto looked at him. Akaashi took a picture of the gym and shrugged. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. 

“Well, if you don’t, you don’t. But I think the art should really be something—big, you know. Like, stillness and motion.” Bokuto had been mixing colors, but he pointed a tube of paint at the gym emphatically.

“As in, when the characters are still, we look at the background?” Akaashi had settled into an almost Kenma pose, where his knees were bent more inwards than his natural form. If he had to sit in the grass for a long time, then he would relax for a while. 

“The backgrounds move, too. Like, the camera pans out, like kabam. And you see a river trickling down a hill, kapoosh. Birds, flying. Whammo.”

“All sounds I would associate with a forest.”

“But the setting is important! It gives you feelings, too. People don’t exist in a void, or alone. That sort of thing. When you paint someone on a blank background, that’s different from painting them in a place, a time.” Bokuto puffed out his chest with self-importance. “Well, I’d like them to feel that way when they look at my art, anyway.” 

“Moreso than thinking about deadlines.” Akaashi didn’t regret telling the truth, but he felt a slight sting of displeasure. He had been disrespectful to the art director, but he found himself halfway between explaining himself and apologizing. Bokuto only laughed.

“You can’t control what people think,” he said cheerfully. “You just try to say what you have to say, the best you can. Though sometimes it’s disappointing, the other way around. Like, one time, I helped make an anime and the BD sales were really, really low.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Akaashi was surprised by the sincerity of his own voice. He touched his mouth for a moment. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay. I saw my art on TV, and it was big, and really bright, and really good. And I felt that moment.” Bokuto lapsed into silence, beginning his work on his canvas. Akaashi absently took another picture of the fading gymnasium in the sunset, but turned curiously back to him.

“The moment?” he repeated. 

“Yeah,” Bokuto said, distracted. “Sometimes, it’s not about what’s gonna happen, or what you’ll do in the future. I mean, it’s like background art. A big picture and a small picture, all at once. You see everything and only one thing. That’s my real answer. It’s showing off 120% of your strength. It’s everything. It’ll really get you hooked. And once you feel it, you can’t go back.” 

Akaashi’s finger slipped, and he took a picture of Bokuto by accident. He frowned and lowered the camera, the black of the cover now bathed in oranges and reds. When he looked up again, the gym, too, had been drenched in a nostalgic wash of burnt hues. The school building stood alone, flanked by the empty bike racks and locked school gate. Bokuto was painting beside him, a blur of motion. From the mix of colors, the gymnasium began to emerge from the canvas. The paint had begun to seep into Bokuto’s white track suit, but he continued to paint with brash and bold strokes. The gaze of his eyes almost glowed when the sunset dimmed, like a candle, into a cooler night. Akaashi listened to the paintbrush swill against the rinsing water, mat against a damp fold of paper towel, and dip once more into the paint. In the moonlight, the rims of Bokuto’s eyes gained an entrancing focus. 

“It’s late,” Akaashi finally said. “Let’s go back.” 

“Just one more second!” 

“I’m leaving with or without you.”

“Come on, Akaashi. It’s art! You have to be more passionate!” 

“Please feel free to be passionate while you buckle up in the car.” 

Akaashi dug through the trunk of the car to find some plastic to spread underneath the painting. He closed the door to find Bokuto still standing outside, hands freshly washed. He was tugging on his hair again, almost sheepish. Akaashi almost asked what Bokuto had dropped in the water this time.

“Hey, Akaashi, thanks for this.” Bokuto rubbed the back of his neck. “Do you—want to have dinner again?” 

“Sure,” Akaashi said. He thought about the times that Fuunji Ramen was open, and then about Bokuto’s strange, happy smile, directed to the ground. 

This was a date. 

No, correction: he had already gone on a date with Bokuto. 

“Hm,” Akaashi said. Judging by his history, he would have thought his type to be girls in ambitious university clubs. He looked at Bokuto. 

“Are you busy?” Bokuto asked. His eyes were still wide. 

“No,” Akaashi said. “Let’s have dinner.”

**

They celebrated the airing of the first episode in Meeting Room C. Fried chicken, soda, and various other chips scattered across the long table. The television at the end of the room displayed the High Jump episode. Akaashi sat with the production department. Takeda, at the long end of the table, seemed visibly nervous.

Akaashi found himself watching the background. He recognized the art. The picture of the gymnasium felt especially reminiscent. He had visited Bokuto’s desk long enough to recognize the drawings of the gym, each picture depicting a different time of day. When he glanced down the long table, Bokuto seemed more enthralled with the storyline, however, and could be heard whispering, “So what happens next?” to Onaga, the background assistant with the misfortune of sitting beside him.

And like that, months flashing by like an animator wafting through the cuts, the second cour began. 

“You can’t keep doing this, Akaashi!” Bokuto grabbed his hair. “Is it gonna be like this the whole time? No cuts for days and then hundreds at once?” 

“Please don’t exaggerate.” Though Akaashi had to admit, the process had grown unusually sticky and clogged. The sheath of cut envelopes in his hands was thicker than usual, and Bokuto would have to look through each cut individually. But blaming the key animators or the executives could only lead to trouble, so he cleared a small space from Bokuto’s cubicle. The dried artwork still sat in the back beneath the corkboard of reference pictures. A mess of architectural blueprints, numbering in the hundreds, had been composed into a messy tower. The top of Bokuto’s cubicle and blue binders swarmed with plastic owls. Bokuto probably liked owls, Akaashi thought.

“Akaashi,” Bokuto moaned. 

“Please do your best.” Akaashi raised an envelope, containing cuts 290-303, to hide his kiss. Bokuto’s mouth felt warm and he allowed himself to linger, but drew back to place the envelope onto the pile.

“Akaashi,” Bokuto muttered, but he unlatched the first envelope in the stack.

The row of key animators had also grown busier. They flipped through their sketches with alarming speed, sitting still in their boxes of cubicles. If Akaashi had to pinpoint the reason the cuts were arriving on Bokuto’s desk all at once, he would admit, judicially, Oikawa and Ushijima’s disagreements remained heated at a slow boil. Though this wasn’t obvious from where Oikawa calmly sat at the end of the row, clicking his omnipresent stopwatch. 

Akaashi arrived back at the bullpen. Envelopes of older cuts stuffed the high wall of shelves surrounding the busy desks. Akaashi’s desk was still neatly kept, the only decoration an old Bird! Bird!! charm dangling from a bookmark. In contrast, as the second cour aired, the papers on Yamaguchi’s neighboring desk had reached a near impossibility. Kenma’s desk appeared the same, a plugged-in 3DS charging while delicate figurines acted like paperweights to the cuts. Only Yamaguchi and Kenma were in the room. Goshiki’s pinpoint neat desk and Iwaizumi’s messy corral were both empty of their occupants.

“How did things go?” Akaashi asked. Yamaguchi peered up at him. Akaashi had seen, in passing, Yamaguchi speaking with the film editor. Ennoshita mostly resided in the recording studio, so his presence sparked some notice. Of course, it helped that Nishinoya and Tanaka, the sound composers, had been flanking his sides. Tanaka rounded every corner with a devious grin and Nishinoya leapt to peek over the cubicle walls, treating their usual meeting with the director like they were preschoolers on their first tour. 

“It’s not quite the same, I think,” Yamaguchi said. “Oh, but thank you—for telling me about that—”

“I’m sorry the lead couldn’t help you.” 

“I mean, it did help! A little.” Yamaguchi chewed his bottom lip. “Production is hard, but I don’t think it’s too hard. It’s just—I feel frustrated. That I can’t do what others can. That I don’t know my path.” 

“Those are heavy thoughts,” Akaashi said. 

“Do you have a goal?” Yamaguchi flickered his gaze upwards. Akaashi had been taping down the drawings, but he slowed. The tape felt smooth under his thumb. 

“Head production assistant is already a feat,” Akaashi said. 

“But you can do more.” 

The accusatory words struck from across the dividers. Yamaguchi swiveled around to where Kenma had finally looked up from his game. Kenma kept his sharp eyes focused on a point beyond Akaashi’s shoulder. He still thumbed down on his 3DS, voice curling low onto the floor. 

Akaashi recalled, suddenly, Iwaizumi’s casual suggestion of being CEO of his own company. But he couldn’t laugh off Kenma’s words. He could try to leaden the weight by tracking out pathways to becoming the head general manager, but he gripped his fingers against the palm of his hand. 

“Perhaps,” he said. 

Kenma seemed neither disappointed nor relieved. He returned to his game. Yamaguchi still stared after him, perhaps in disbelief that the silent Kenma had finally spoken. 

Iwaizumi broke through the doorway. The room fell into a foreboding silence. He stood at the helm of the room. 

“We got trouble,” he said.

**

He hadn’t talked to Bokuto much the past week. The last time he had a full conversation with him must have been when Bokuto had stayed the night at his apartment. Akaashi had slipped out of the sweaty arm embrace and padded his way to the refrigerator. The frosted air blasted his bare shoulders, but he swiped his pitcher of water off the rack. The damp stickiness to his thighs felt unpleasant, but the harsh hum of the bathroom lights would have felt too brash.

When Akaashi returned to the bedroom, Bokuto had woken up and clipped on his wrist brace. 

“Old injury?” Akaashi slipped beneath his blankets again. Bokuto eagerly wrapped an arm around his side. The edges of the brace brushed against Akaashi’s forearm. 

“Sometimes my wrists hurt,” Bokuto whispered, or his version of whisper. Akaashi’s apartment had thin walls, and he was certain Bokuto had already serenaded them through sleepless nights. 

“You should do more wrist exercises.” But then again, Akaashi was usually the one in the morning assemblies to discuss best stretching exercises and radio calisthenics. Yamaguchi usually adopted the ideal computer typing pose for at least a day while Kenma seemed guiltier than usual. 

“I know, I know. But it’s so fun, drawing and painting and everything like that, or it’s frustrating, or you just want to keep doing it. You know?” 

“You feel so much about art.” Akaashi stared at his wall. “I suppose most people in the anime industry feel the same.” 

“Do you really only see deadlines, Akaashi?” 

“It’s only a job.” Akaashi pulled his shoulders tightly inward. “I got it by coincidence. Any promotions were purely by seniority and chance. Or perhaps cowardice and complacency.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit, Akaashi.”

“When I was younger, I did watch anime. A little bit. I don’t recall any titles or characters. I was watching an episode when my mother pulled me away from the living room. We had to apologize to the neighbors for something my father had done. I’m not even sure if he did it. But I sat and bowed my head. It was merely unpleasant, but isn’t that all it is. The anime continued playing in one room, but I lived my life in another.” 

Akaashi recalled the rows of gymnasium pictures along Bokuto’s cubicles, depicting the midday scenes to evening. He braced for a rebuke, but felt only a soft, sleepy kiss to the back of his neck. 

“I guess I don’t really get it,” Bokuto mumbled. “But you’re not wrong, Akaashi.” 

Akaashi curled his fingers into his palms.

“I suppose,” he eventually said, though Bokuto had long since been snoring.

**

The old fire damage of the server had corrupted some data. Parts were recoverable, but others had not been pulled. The next episode needed to be in the studio in two days’ time. They would need to secure the remaining cuts that night, including the lost cuts from Studio Johzenji, whose last phone call had been twenty-four hours ago.

“The director’s busy with the last episode’s storyboard,” Iwaizumi said, face grim. “It’s up to us.” 

“The cuts are probably still on Johzenji’s hard drive,” Kenma muttered. Yamaguchi seemed even more shocked to hear Kenma speak, voluntarily, twice in one day. 

“Then I’ll drive there,” Akaashi said, rising in his seat. 

“I’ll keep calling them!” Yamaguchi hurried to the phone set. 

“I’ll do all I can!” Goshiki roared. 

“Yeah, sure. But maybe focus that energy on the cuts. Keep me updated on our freelancer’s statuses. And, Akaashi, you sure you want to leave?” Iwaizumi asked. He had a strange, rough tone to his question, almost like hesitation. 

“It’s fine. I’m likely the fastest driver here, and we need you to stay as the manager.” Akaashi slung on his bag. 

“Well, Oikawa might not look like it, but he can probably get along with anybody if he tried. He’ll work with Ushijima on this. Kenma, go help Hinata. He can probably use all the hands he can get.” Iwaizumi grabbed his own bundle of cuts. “If I had more time, I’d say something moving. But the episode needs to hit the air, so get going already.” 

It wasn’t until a quarter to Miyagi that Akaashi remembered to call Bokuto. He stopped by the side of the road to buy some coffee. The phone balanced between his shoulder and ear while he counted out his change. The phone call dropped to Bokuto’s voicemail, but he didn’t bother to leave a message. He loaded himself back into the company car and took off down the road. 

There was something about driving that lulled him into complacency. His music player hadn’t been updated in years, but he listened to the old anime opening to Bird! Bird!!. A news crew struggled with the heavy cameras, pulled to the side of the road. A woman, dressed in crimson and gold flowering robes, sat with her feet pressed together. She held a can of soda in her hands. While Akaashi stopped at a red light, a father crossed the street with a child who leapt at the painted lines of the crosswalk. The car continued past the tall buildings with their marbled steps and the electronic glitter.

Yamaguchi had somehow managed to get through the studio lines. Though Akaashi arrived far past a company’s usual closing hours, a woman in a yellow tracksuit opened the doors. He could see, past the pile of kinetic toys, a row of animators still working at the late hour. The cuts retrieved, he thanked Misaki for her time. Between the steps of the studio and his car, he called Bokuto again. The familiar hey hey hey of the voicemail rung out, and he ended the call. 

Akaashi didn’t expect a hero’s welcome when he returned to the company, but the brusque robbing of the cuts was still far less ceremonious than expected. He ventured back to his seat, but Iwaizumi hovered with his eyebrows drawn together. 

“Akaashi,” he said. “We need the art director to check through the frames. Take these to him.”

“I understand,” Akaashi said. His feet still ached and hummed from the drive, but the emergency of the situation propelled him to take the cuts. But Iwaizumi didn’t quite release them.

“He’s not in the building,” Iwaizumi said. 

“At this time?” Akaashi took the cuts with a deep sense of irritation, but Iwaizumi looked at him, straightforward and clear.

“Bokuto collapsed earlier today.” Iwaizumi frowned. “He’s been released from the hospital and he’s resting at home.”

**

Akaashi might have been better off throwing his chair across the room.

He said, “What?” and “You want me to take him work while he’s resting?” and “Why didn’t you tell me earlier before I left?” 

“Bokuto asked us not to tell you,” Iwaizumi said. “And he was the one who asked for the cuts.” 

“So of course you’d listen to him.” Akaashi grabbed his jacket from his chair and knocked off a binder. It fell to the floor with a loud thud and Yamaguchi winced. 

“He’s an adult, Akaashi—”

“So you’ll take care of your favored directors, but ignore the ones who irritate you.” Akaashi snatched the cuts from the desk and jammed his fist through his jacket sleeve. “You’d work him to the death if you could. Do you think he only exists for this company?”

“He was the one who asked for this!” Iwaizumi had an explosive voice, but he rarely turned his anger on his production staff. A slow red had crept near his ears and Akaashi knew he shouldn’t be biting back at his manager, especially not petty and bristling with insinuations, but he shook with anger and fatigue and aching worry. 

“He didn’t ask for any of this!” Akaashi said, or shouted, or his version of shouted, because he had been raised in a quiet house of only the television buzzing over the morning breakfast or coming home after practice to find the lights still off or bowing his head near a table and looking at the shape of his fingernails where he had touched his forehead. He wasn’t making sense, but he burned with a blazing anger and he stormed out of the building with all the petulance of a child. 

He knew the way to Bokuto’s apartment, and like a numb fact, he thought everybody at his workplace knew about his relationship with Bokuto. The blare of the liquor stores burst onto the sidewalk and the blinking neon lights grated at his nerve. He stormed his way past the throngs of people who laughed too loud and wore coats too thick and had awful, horrible faces, taunting and twisting, until he was at Bokuto’s door, sweating and burning and holding onto the thick stack of envelopes. 

He knocked on the door once. When he tried the handle, the door opened for him easily. 

“Please lock your door, Bokuto-san,” he mumbled. 

Akaashi had a nicer apartment. Bigger, equipped with better stoves and refrigerators. Bokuto still lived in the same apartment from when he had started working as an anime artist. He had only invested in his computer set-up, triple screens surrounding a tablet, and a workspace for his paintings. A white cloth draped over a half-finished acrylic work of an ocean. Akaashi cracked open a window before he looked to the bed, where Bokuto sat with his wrist brace. 

“I didn’t think they’d send you,” Bokuto said, eyes guilty and darting. He had taken the effort to throw on a face mask and pull a coat over his shoulders, but his hands looked weak over the blankets. His hair was down, which Akaashi liked, if only because he’d mostly seen the vulnerable look after Bokuto had taken a shower and Akaashi could run his fingers through the soft strands. 

“They said you didn’t want me to know.” Akaashi knelt by the bed. The sickly tinge to the air had begun to ease out the opened window. 

“Because you’d be mad,” Bokuto said sadly. 

“I’d be worried.” Akaashi curled his fingers over the envelope. “There’s a difference.” 

He had expected himself to be angrier. He had imagined himself throwing two chairs in Bokuto’s apartment, despite the fact that Bokuto only owned one. But sitting in the quiet room, his stomach churned when he thought about someone stumbling across Bokuto on the floor. Akaashi’s finger hurt from where he dug in his nails and pulled at his pointer finger. 

“But I’m fine now!” Bokuto smiled faintly, though the mask blocked his mouth and Akaashi followed the warm wrinkles around his eyes. 

“You went to the hospital.”

“Those ingrates really told you everything.” Bokuto seemed sheepish. “I guess I have a history, so they had to be sure. It’s just a little cold this time, Akaashi. Really.” 

“In the future, please tell me about these situations, Bokuto-san. It’s not in your nature to hide things.” Akaashi looked down at his fingers. “And I would like you to be honest in our relationship, even if you want to protect me.” 

“I’ll be honest! I promise!” 

“You don’t need to sweet-talk me so insincerely. I know what you really want,” Akaashi said dryly. He took off his jacket, loosened his collar, sat on Bokuto’s bed, rested his hand on his knee, and deposited the remaining cuts onto his lap.

“Yay,” Bokuto said happily, immediately unlatching an envelope. 

Bokuto’s fever seemed to rise after some work. Akaashi taped a cooling pad to his forehead and brought him a simple meal fashioned from the remnants of the refrigerator. Beneath his mask, Bokuto had an unhealthy flush to his cheeks. Akaashi eventually crawled into the bed beside him, tired of ignoring messages on his phone. 

“You’ll get sick, too,” Bokuto said. 

“I heard only idiots get sick.” Not that Akaashi was concerned about catching the cold, though. He had a feeling his position at the company was in jeopardy, and taking a sick leave might be more beneficial than staying around as a constant reminder of his childish tantrum. 

Bokuto flicked through the drawings. He had trouble raising the dry toast to his mouth, but his pencil deftly sketched out the corrections. 

“When I do this,” Bokuto mumbled, head almost weaving despite his steady pencil, “I think—is there an owl living in this forest? Because you have to think about it. This tree once had an owl living in it. That sort of thing. That’s the key.” 

Akaashi brought a damp towel to wipe down Bokuto’s neck, but he didn’t seem to get any better. 

“To be honest,” Akaashi said, “I don’t think this is worth hurting yourself.” Akaashi had been educated in the art of flower arranging, poetry, and calligraphy. He had even played the piano at one point. He had thought of himself as refined, but he didn’t think he would burn for his flowers like Bokuto pursued his pencil sketches. They neared the end of the pile, and Bokuto’s corrections remained steady and consistent. He corrected the line of the road or the position of the bus stop, and only seemed to want another page more to examine. 

“Kinda reminds me of Tsukki.” Bokuto scratched out another correction. “Me and Kuroo and him, we went to the same university. And Tsukki said, you know. It’s hard to make a living off art. It’s unlikely you’ll be the best at anything. You should think about the reality of your situation.” 

“The director of photography?” Akaashi had some interaction with him on previous projects. Not a cheerful person, but not gloomy, either. He could imagine Tsukishima speaking those words, hidden beneath his headphones. 

“I guess I told him some things, or Kuroo told him some things. Don’t remember.” Bokuto signed off on the envelope. “Well, when you’re doing background stuff, you have to think about a bird’s eye view sometimes. You know, looking at things from above. And everything might seem small and simple, but what’s so bad about that, you know. Small and simple.” 

“Are you finished?” 

“I don’t know. It’s hard to think.” Bokuto groggily pointed a finger at him. “And don’t ask if that’s unusual, Akaashi, I know you.” 

“I wouldn’t say that to a sick person.”

“You definitely would!” Bokuto slid down onto his bed. “But I’m done, so reward me.”

“Shall I compliment you?”

“Don’t sweet-talk me, Akaashi. You know what I want!” 

Akaashi placed the envelopes on the side table. He pulled down Bokuto’s face mask and kissed the side of his cheek. Bokuto’s face felt too hot, but he grinned sloppily and held onto Akaashi’s hand.

**

When Iwaizumi entered the bullpen, Akaashi stood up. After dropping the cuts off at the company, he had returned to his own apartment to binge Bird! Bird!! at a dangerous pace. The inspirational sports birds had kept him awake all night, but he had become more determined than ever to amend his wrongs, and he began to swing his head downwards when Iwaizumi said, “Sorry.”

“I’m—” Akaashi frowned, puzzled at being cut off. Iwaizumi swung his heavy bag onto his desk. 

“I handled the situation wrong, Akaashi. As the manager, I should know better. For you to get that upset was a cold slap of reality to my face.” Iwaizumi frowned. “But if you do forgive me, don’t tell Oikawa about this. He’ll never let me live it down.” 

“No, I was the one who was wrong,” Akaashi said firmly. “My behavior was unacceptable—”

“Your boyfriend just collapsed, what were you supposed to do?” Iwaizumi leaned back in his chair. “Do you know what’s worse? I was thinking I should have emailed you. What kind of half-assed thinking is that?” 

“Please let me apologize for my behavior,” Akaashi said. 

“Sure,” Iwaizumi said. “Now let’s get back to work. We have a deadline.”

Bokuto eventually returned to work. Akaashi didn’t think his own behavior had changed, but Konoha explicitly drew up a sign that limited ‘lovebird activities’ and could be seen glowering whenever Akaashi tried to bring Bokuto food, water, or pillows, which was, Akaashi had to admit upon reflection, frequent throughout the day. After a particularly heavy conversation about whether or not Bokuto should take a nap during lunch, Akaashi was temporarily banned from the artists’ dungeon and instead lurked around the corner at the coloring station. 

“Kenma told me you were meddlesome,” Kuroo said, tapping on his tablet to color a High Jump character. “But this is extreme, Akaashi.” 

“Kenma told you?” Akaashi had business with Kuroo, anyway, but he supposed he couldn’t take a moral high ground when he peeked around the corner at every chance. Kuroo was the color designer, which meant he had the largest computer screen. In contrast to the pale shades on the artists’ dungeon walls, the office space for the coloring staff had been decorated in bright red. 

“Not in a bad way,” Kuroo said. “He appreciates it. He’ll tell me that you said something about wrist exercises during morning assembly, or that you offered to get him tea. Nice going, Akaashi.” 

Kuroo seemed to be sincere, but he still had a mocking tone. Natural, Akaashi supposed. Akaashi eyed him, but returned his gaze across the hallway to here Bokuto was holding up a drawing to the light. 

“That’s surprising,” Akaashi said. “He doesn’t seem to like me much.” Which didn’t bother Akaashi. Kenma was always cordial to him, and with all the aggravating events, Akaashi couldn’t ask for more.

“He just thinks of you like a rival.” Kuroo switched screens to an email. “Kenma actually wanted to be a video game designer. But he just didn’t do well in the office politics at his company. He doesn’t tell me about it, but it sounded like a case of bad seniors. They should know better.” Genuine anger. Akaashi could pinpoint the small prick of genuine anger running underneath the light-hearted tone. 

“I’m sorry to hear that.” 

“Yeah, me too.” Levity again, and Kuroo sent off his email. “But I know he wonders if he’s doing the right thing, taking this job, tinkering with video games on the side. When he sees you, or Hinata, or people that driven, he’s probably irritated that he wants to try hard at something, too.” 

“Isn’t he irritated by you, too?” 

“Looks like you got a sharper tongue than I thought.” Kuroo grinned. “Yeah, but we’re childhood friends, so he’s used to me. Besides, I’m not like that dumb owl down the hallway. I’m more of a thinker, wouldn’t you say?”

“Hey, Akaashi, I’m hungry.” Bokuto protruded his head into the coloring station. He held up something he had idly painted, a night scene from the protagonist’s house. “And compliment me, Akaashi!”

“If you’re hungry, then get something for yourself,” Akaashi said, taking out a nutrient bar from his pocket. “I’m not going to take care of you.”

“So this is what Konoha-san meant by lovebirds,” Tsukishima said. He had been sitting quietly in the corner of the room, gray headphones over his ears, which Akaashi had assumed would be blaring music. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Akaashi said stiffly. 

“Okay, we get it,” Kuroo said. “You’re not lovebirds, so you can stop shoving the food into Bokuto’s mouth now.”

**

“And, the thing about is, the thing about it!” Hinata shivered on-stage. The last episode had been delivered to the television networks, which meant the celebratory party followed. The party took place in a modest hotel, the pillars gilded and vases of flowers blooming. Akaashi had taken a glass of champagne, which he placed on the white table cloth to applaud Hinata’s speech. The production staff had stayed together in a pack, though they parted slowly like unraveling a ball of yarn. Kuroo stopped by to add more food to Kenma’s plate. Goshiki left to challenge Ushijima to a hot-blooded shrimp-eating contest. Yamaguchi, however, remained.

Bokuto was busy regaling his bored staff with another rousing tale, so Akaashi settled on a plush rectangular seat. Yamaguchi sat beside him. 

“We did it,” Yamaguchi offered. 

“Yes,” Akaashi said. 

“But I guess I still don’t know what to do.” Yamaguchi smiled into his small plate of salad. “Hinata and Kageyama did a really good job. The ratings are really high. They worked really hard.” 

“We all worked hard,” Akaashi said, finger wrapping around the stem of his champagne flute. 

“Yeah, but I think—the audience who watch this, the kids who they’ll influence, inspire, things like that. And I didn’t do that much. I could have done more. I want to do more.” 

“I think,” Akaashi said, “it’s fine to start off with something small and simple.” 

“Yeah,” Yamaguchi agreed, salad untouched. “I guess, out of everything, I’d like to be useful. I’d like to help Tsukki, if I can, in any way I can.” 

“That also sounds like a noble goal,” Akaashi said. In the meanwhile, Tsukishima had been flanked by Bokuto and Kuroo. He was grimacing while trying to stay afloat the piles of food they lauded onto his plate. 

“Sorry, excuse me!” A man with glasses, faintly familiar, approached them. “Do you mind if I set down my bags here for a while? The party is fancier than I thought, I should have worn a tie.” 

“Please do,” Akaashi said, standing up to allow the man some room. 

“Thanks, thanks. Oh, I’m the event creative producer, Shimada, you may have seen me around…” 

Akaashi left the producer and Yamaguchi to their talks. The ballroom had been filled with staff, and though his intent was to pull Bokuto off Tsukishima, he found himself pushed by the flow towards the banquet table. He wouldn’t refuse food, so he took up a plate to help himself to the generous piles of fresh meatballs. 

“Oh, sorry,” Hinata said, clasping his hands together. “Can I ask you to do me a favor?” 

“Did you want a meatball?” Akaashi looked down at his empty plate. He wouldn’t refuse the director, either. 

“No, not about that! Could you get Bokuto-san to sign something for me?” Hinata produced the familiar book that Akaashi had seen on Konoha’s desk. The book fit broadly in Akaashi’s hands. The cover was a painting of an ocean, the brush strokes short and aggressive. 

“You’re the director of a highly successful anime,” Akaashi said. “Do you not feel you could ask him yourself? He’d certainly be annoyingly flattered, but please feel free to ignore him.” 

“But it’s still Bokuto-san!” Hinata gripped his fists in front of his chest. “He was the art director of all these great anime! Like, Samurai Corral? The iconic anime that influenced a lot of movies? Or Gattan Lagoon? All those action scenes! All those space fights! Or Celestial Rhythm! I cried for days! I almost got dehydrated!” 

“I see,” Akaashi said, passing him a drink of water. “I’ll ask him tonight, if he’s sober enough. But please accept my congratulations on a successful project completed.” 

“Thanks!” Hinata beamed. “But I couldn’t have done it alone. I mean, at first it was just the annoying Kageyama, but everybody helped make this dream come true. It’s something we all did.” 

The ballroom was golden and glittering, but Akaashi found a reprieve out on the wide balcony. Wooden chairs and tables had been set out like patio furniture. The city was alive and bright beyond the high fence, the cars twinkling through the streets. The chandelier light spilled from the party and onto the pages of the glossy book. He pinched the pages and flipped through at random points. 

A placid lake, the forest shrouded in mist. Another page, a winter wasteland. The snow layered over the abandoned buildings, the rocks solemn guardians. A beach at sunrise, scattered light over ocean waves. A cove, white birds speckling against the lumbering clouds. Jagged cliffs, amber tinged, and another page, a grassy valley loved by sunlight and the mountains comforted by shadows. Some looked like photographs, and others looked like they could be nothing but paintings, the purple of the hills so bold and clean against the midnight sky. The details felt so stark that he knew the sight by heart. He thought Bokuto couldn’t have possibly painted with such attentiveness, but he saw that boldness, the overwhelming joy and dedication. Akaashi supposed he should have already seen it, sitting in the conference room and watching the characters enter the gym he could have called their home. 

He flipped to an earlier page. A simpler picture of a forest. He remembered the taste of instant ramen and thin bedding covering his knees. His homework strewn along the floor and the television the strongest light of the room. The characters bounced on the screen.

“Akaashi.” Strong arms wrapped around his shoulders. “Akaashi, don’t tell Akaashi, I think I’m drunk.” 

His usual answer would have been to get Bokuto to drink some water, but Akaashi didn’t move from his chair. The party slowly ebbed back to him. Someone was laughing inside, a tinkle of glass tapping against glass in celebratory toasts. Bokuto stumbled to the chair beside him. His face was flushed from drinking and he had loosened his collar, jacket long since abandoned on some floor. 

“You never told me that you did Bird! Bird!!” Akaashi touched the forest in the picture. He could feel the damp leaves. An owl must surely live there, he thought. 

“Oh, that was a long time ago. Nobody—watched it.” Bokuto swayed forward. “Are you booking at my look? The old ones aren’t—they’re no good. I did a great one later. Of a bird. Or something. Whoosh.” 

“I watched it. In university.” After his classes, as a reward, he would sometimes indulge, relaxed in his bed and dinner in his lap. “It didn’t change my life. But it was fun. It made me happy.” 

“Listen, Akaashi,” Bokuto said, slurring the end of his sentence. “If you turn the pages, there’s more—that’s the secret to books, you have to turn the page. Shhh. Don’t tell the publishers.”

“But I like this art.” Akaashi rested his hand on the page. “I love your art.”

Bokuto blinked. Slowly, the blush reached his ears, and he brought both hands to the sides of his face. Akaashi thought the people still inside the ballroom, if they chose to peer outside, would only see two people sitting on polished and polite beige patio chairs. Or if someone from a neighboring hotel opened their curtains, they would only see shadows on a balcony, the lights from the broad window brightening up the width of the floor. Or someone from far away, far far away, who would gaze from atop a mountain, would only see a busy city at night, the massive burst of electricity now the illusive glimpse of a white owl flying into a solemn forest.

Akaashi sat with the book in his lap and looked at his reflection in Bokuto’s wide, adoring eyes.


End file.
